


First Impressions

by shouldgowork



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Hux Backstory, Hux' perspective, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Original Character Death(s), Post-Movie(s), Pre-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-02 03:14:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6548398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shouldgowork/pseuds/shouldgowork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life under the New Republic has its victims. One of them searches for a way to restore true order to the galaxy, and finds it in the enigmatic figure of Kylo Ren. (Or, how Hamelin the whipping boy becomes Hux the General).</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Impressions

‘Hamelin.’

The child’s frown deepened as he heard the call down the hallway, but he followed it nonetheless.

‘Hamelin… get in here. I want to show you something. Something _important_. About where you _came_ from.’

His nose wrinkled in disgust at the sickly sweet reek of wine, growing stronger and stronger as he got closer to the doorway to the study.

‘HA-oh. There you are. Good.’ His father said, ensnaring the boy’s shoulder with his crooked, stiff fingers, hard as talons, guiding him ungently to the wall of portrait busts that dominated the study. He stared ahead at them, as was expected, the likenesses of his ancestors stretching back from his father for centuries.  It was no hardship; he was captivated by the darkness of their polished jet surfaces.

‘What’s these.’

‘They are our ancestors, sir.’ He said, straightening up respectfully as he knew he was meant to.

‘And what did they do?’

‘They represented our planet in the senate, sir.’

‘ _That they did boy. That they did.’_ He said, poking the boy’s chest with every other word.

‘Why don’t we?’ He asked, the question occurring to him for the first time. He felt a sharp blow to the side of his head and barely heard himself being ordered from the room through the ringing noise, though he had already started running for the door, not daring to look up and see who he would run into until he reached his mother’s room.

‘It’s not good to ask him questions like that.’ She said as soon as his sobbing had subsided enough for her to speak, as she delicately sponged the side of his face.

‘What do you mean?’ He replied; it had seemed a very simple question to him.

‘If you were older, perhaps you’d understand. He loves you, in his own way. He’s just very… frustrated.’

‘But I didn’t do anything wrong.’

‘I never said you did. That’s not the point.’

‘Why?’

She had sighed wearily. ‘It just doesn’t work that way.’

‘What doesn’t?’

‘Life, Hamelin. Everything.’

The sheer unfairness, the unanswerableness of this, had dragged howls from him for the rest of the night, and though they had subsided by the morning, his helplessness and anger had not. He was sure his mother was wrong, he was definitely old enough to understand things (everyone always told him he was a clever boy anyway), and how was he going to avoid upsetting his father if he didn’t know how he’d upset him?

He managed to build up a picture over the next few days through asking as many of their servants as he ran into, and, lastly, cajoling his mother.

‘You haven’t asked anyone else, have you?’ She’d asked sharply;

‘No.’ He lied, sensing another thing he didn’t understand.

It was all so confusing, and more often than he’d like, he’d been given odd looks, and even the odd chuckle, in response to the question, but he had an idea of what it was no one would tell him. It seemed that his father had been in the senate back when it was a different senate. And when it had changed, he’d gotten in some kind of trouble and he didn’t like remembering it. Hamelin guessed that made sense, and left it at that, for the present.

 

2.

The performance always started out the same way, the slurred summons, the questions, but the responses changed, becoming more bitter and acidic as the years passed by.

‘Do you know what they did?’

‘They represented us in the senate, sir.’

‘And what does that mean.’

Hamelin paused; he’d never really considered that.

‘You don’t know.’ His father said, triumphantly, raising a finger in the air as if conducting an orchestra only he could see. The boy shook his head. ‘They looked after the interests of this planet. They made sure we were treated fairly, weren’t taxed too much, were kept safe from pirates and smugglers.’

Hamelin’s skin crawled. There had been rumours in the playground about pirates.

‘Those sound like good things.’ He replied solemnly.

‘And they were. Very good things. Who do you think does them now?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘No one!’ He screamed back, gesturing wildly again. ‘No one does a damn thing for this planet. I had the ear of the emperor and he made sure we were treated fairly. In the new senate, this planet is nothing. We are no one. And somehow that’s _my_ fault.’

Oh. Maybe that explained the older children who looked funny at him, when they were all talking about pirates.

Thinking on this, he missed his apparent cue to sympathise and was thrown out of the room with a parting blow, and not summoned for several days. His mother merely sighed at him and handed him a sponge for his lip.

 

3.

By the time he left school, at fourteen, he had a clearer measure of things and so, apparently, did all the other children, who had grown to hate him as their own personal mascot of the ills of both the past and the present. He had grown to understand, better, the unfairness of their taxation, especially high due to their close collaboration with Emperor Palpatine. He could see, all around him, its effects, compounded year after year, rendered increasingly serious with the growing menace of piracy. It had even started to affect their household, luxuries slowly being shaved away as their income dwindled very slowly, but steadily. His anger bred recklessness, compounded by the lack of school or work to fill his time, the lack of friends to distract him. On his fifteenth birthday his father ushered him into his study and gave him a small glass of whatever foul stuff he had to hand; eye-wateringly strong and dangerously tongue-loosening.

‘Father.’ He said eventually. The man grunted his assent. ‘Why don’t we do something about it? About the republic, about the taxes and the lack of protection?’ 

‘Yes, the fucking _republic._ Robbed us. Took our power away. Bastards.’

‘So why don’t we do something about it? I know we’re not the only ones who feel like this. I’ve heard rumours-‘

‘Oh? You’ve heard _rumours_? And just what are you going to do with those? Wish upon a star until something happens?’

‘I don’t know.’ He said sullenly. He’d never left their town, let alone the planet. He wouldn’t know where to start. ‘There must be someone you can talk to, some other reasonable people who only want order restored, people you knew-‘

‘I said _no_!’

‘Why not?’

The man, visibly purpling, exploded. ‘But can’t you see how damned _unfair_ it all is? Can’t you see? It was my birth right. It was taken from me, you foolish, stupid little boy _._ ’

He was too tipsy to avoid the blow to his eye but he crashed from the room after it and went to hide in his room. He broke a chunk of ice off the outside of his window and held it to his face, trembling. He felt sick to his stomach, sick with the realisation that his father didn’t truly want him to do anything about it, had grown so used to the ruins of the past, was so sustained by bitterness and a sense of injustice, that he now couldn’t do without these things. Worse still, that he wanted Hamelin to rot here with him.

Worst by far; he was trapped; he’d played enough dejarik (generally against himself) to know that he was cornered. With no friends, no experience of the world, he wouldn’t even know where to start. He could only hope and wish fervently that a start will find him. He redoubled his studies of the old republic and the new, as far as he was able, he ignored the hatred directed at him, shielding himself from it with the knowledge of his innocence of any wrongdoing, and the white hot fury that filled his nights, and every waking minute.

Almost every waking minute. He still found calm in the blisteringly cold temperatures of the winter nights, standing outside the enclosure protecting their house from the worst of it, breathing in the cold air until it hurt and staring at the ark of the galaxy above him, vowing to leave one day, to make a difference to the world, to restore effective law and order to civilization.

 

4.

The months and years rolled by slowly, and it seemed to Hamelin that the unchanging study, with the unchanging, slumped, soaked figure of his father, was the centre of the universe, around which the rest of creation turned and changed, as shops shut in town, people’s houses fell slowly into disrepair, the beggars on the street corners seemed to multiply from nowhere. The resentment of the townsfolk was overwhelming. In the absence of his father, their beady, critical eyes followed him relentlessly. It took every ounce of self-control not to shake them by the shoulders, scream that this wasn’t his fault, not even his father’s fault, but he would truthfully rather have died than given them the satisfaction. He went everywhere with the same icy expression of contempt and indifference, developed over many years and through many harsh lessons.

_‘You’d think that lot would try to *do* something about the fucking raids.’_

_‘Best thing they could do is jump in front of the blasters.’_

_‘It’d be the best thing those scroungers ever did.’_

For all that he was feeling the benefits of scrounging; their household, far from impervious to the changes of its surroundings, had dwindled down to one acidic servant who appeared to have nowhere else to go, and the men of the family. His mother and her new family lived several miles away. His father had spent many months whining incessantly about weakness and disloyalty; Hamelin saw it more as self-preservation though he could not find it in his heart to forgive her for it and hoped for her sake they never met again. The two of them continued in their dilapidating enclosure dome. Visitors grew less and less frequent, the groups of local children throwing rocks and tauntaun dung at night, more so. It seemed with each passing year their crimes grew greater, until some of the youngest visitors shouted taunts about how they had invited the pirates and driven away the old republic.

‘Does it look like we’re reaping the rewards of piracy!’ His father had bellowed out of the study window and the memory of their laughter was seared into Hamelin’s memory. He supposed it was a small blessing that the government had moved its parliament to the other, safer, side of the planet, and they were therefore free of politically motivated night-time visits.

 

5.

He tried again one last time, on his 21st birthday, marked, rather than celebrated, the same way as the last five.

‘Please, father. I’m begging you, help me find the First Order. The people in town talk about them more and more. If I could just get to a port and find-’

‘Enough! You think if there was anything I could do, I would not stop until it was done? You think I’m a coward?’ His father screamed in his ringing ear. He felt tears of frustration in his eyes and somehow stopped them from falling through sheer force of will.

‘No, sir.’ He lied; they have had this conversation a dozen times at least.

‘ _Do you think you’re better than me.’_ He hissed, shaking the boy’s shoulders.

‘No.’ He lied again, darting away from a slap, grabbing his outer gear and shoving them on hastily, needing to be outside despite the gathering storm.

‘Perhaps there will be lightening this time, and I’ll be done with all of this.’ He muttered to himself.

There wasn’t lightening; instead there was a craft, too small to contain pirates. He hid behind a tree, watching to see if anyone emerged. He finally spotted the figure through the worst of the blizzard, moving, he was sure, towards him. He turned around to see if there was anyone else about. Of course there wasn’t; no one else braved this weather unless absolutely necessary. The dark patch slowly sprouted extremities as it moved closer to him, until he could finally make out the tall figure, completely wreathed in black, walking purposefully in his direction. When Hamelin noticed the white-clad Stormtroopers accompanying him his heart lurched and he sprinted back to the dome, feeling his hands burn as the temperature change hit him.

‘Father! You’ll never guess who-‘

The permanent slumped, stinking mess the man had been for years was suddenly made strange to him by the presence of strangers, and he felt the shame of it all more keenly than he had for years. He cleaned him up as well as was possible, dousing the pitiful creature in perfume, and had manhandled him out to their vestibule just as their visitors entered. Their servant appeared to have made himself scarce, and Hamelin wondered how they had gotten in without the code.

This question was answered, almost immediately, by a dull pain in his head, and a sudden, unbidden rush of emotions and memories, of his hatred of his home planet, his rage about the Republic’s impotence, his fervent belief that they must be replaced by order and strength. He barely managed to suppress a gasp, finally realising that he was standing face to face with a Jedi. It was true, then. All of it. All the scraps of stories that had reached him, about Darth Vader, the right hand of Palpatine.

His father pushed in front, beginning a formal bow to welcome them, nearly tipping over but saving himself at the past minute. He had begun with pleasantries but the figure had merely brushed past him, approaching Hamelin.

‘I would like you to come with us.’ He said, his voice oddly mechanical.

Hamelin nodded in a daze, brought out of his dream-like state by the feeling of his father’s fingers clutching at his arm.

‘Him? What about me?’ His father had demanded. The stranger turned to him momentarily and he howled and clutched his head, evidently subjected to the same test Hamelin had just experienced.

‘You can stay here.’ The figure had replied; an order rather than an invitation.

‘It’s not fair.’ He bawled at no one in particular. ‘It’s not _fair_! _I’m_ the head of this family. I decide if he goes anywhere, and I say he _can’t._ Unless I can go too. Whatever you’re offering him, it’s _mine_ by right _._ ’

He babbled on and on, incessantly, wheedling and demanding, threatening to confine Hamelin to the house for the rest of his life, and his threats, and the whine of his voice, made Hamelin feel sick, suddenly very aware that their mysterious audience was watching this pathetic scene.

‘Shut up.’ He hisses, chest so tight he could barely breathe, his fist balled. ‘Just shut up and have some self-control. You’re making a spectacle of yourself.’

He does shut up, he stops dead, speechless and still, staring at his son first in shock but then in pure rage.

‘How _dare_ you, you little _shit._ ’ He has found his voice again, and walks over to his son menacingly, but the last time he’d done that, the last time he’d been provoked, the boy had been a foot shorter, and the gesture has become far less intimidating these days. ‘You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you? Well you’re not. You haven’t suffered like I have, haven’t felt _disappointment_ like me.’ He turned now to the silent, faceless group. ‘You think he’s so fucking perfect? Huh? Let me tell you a thing or two about Hamelin here-‘

The boy needed only to hear these last words and to think of the versions of himself this man could present; the bawling youngster, the friendless child, the naïve teenager. Not the first impression he wanted to give their visitors, nothing that this remarkable newcomer seemed to find when he looked into him. He snatched his father’s old ceremonial sword from the scabbard round the man’s waist and ran him through. No one moved or made a sound, except the old man, who fell to the ground with a brief gasp.

‘I’m ready to leave now.’ Hamelin said calmly.

 

6.

He had maintained silence on the short flight back to the ship, partly from nausea at this unfamiliar way of moving, mostly trying to search his feelings for any guilt over his actions. Nothing came to him but mild regret over not removing at least one of the busts from the study. As soon as he had been ushered into a functional, grey sitting room and left alone with this mysterious Jedi, he allowed himself any outward sign of uncertainty.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Kylo Ren.’

‘Are you the First Order?’

‘Yes. I’m pleased to hear that word of our deeds has spread so far, to reach even you.’

He winced at the implication that this man touched upon the vast, empty chasm of his childhood.

‘We are not all born where we belong.’ The man replied, and though his voice was modulated to a monotone, though he spoke through a mask as black and lifeless as jet, Hamelin felt one kindred spirit reaching out to another, and his embarrassment lessens.

‘Am I going to be a Stormtrooper?’ Hamelin asked.

‘The strength of your anger called me half way across the galaxy. I think you are made for greater things than that.’

There was an odd fluttering and a giddiness in Hamelin’s stomach.

‘We will find out tomorrow.’ His spectral companion continued, ‘Though I do not think you will fail me.’

Hamelin has never wished against something so fervently in his life.

He met the enormity the next morning. There’s no other way to describe the figure that looms above them, speaking with a voice that pierces him to the core. It felt like divine backing for his cause, making him even more eager to impress Snoke than Ren, not looking away as he’s surveyed by those inhuman eyes.

‘What do you want most, boy?’

‘Order. Proper governance.’ He replied without hesitation.

‘And what is necessary for that to happen?’

‘A strong hand.’

‘Just one?’

‘Democracy is always weak. Always tears itself apart.’

He was rewarded with something akin to a smile and felt blessed.

‘I want you to kill Kylo Ren.’

He had no weapons, but didn’t hesitate as he turned mechanically, not for a second considering not obeying this man.

‘Stop.’ Snoke said, almost immediately. The deep rumbles of his laughter filled the room. Ren had not so much as flinched; and Hamelin realised that this was a test they had both set him. He also realised, with a shiver, that he has passed it.

‘You were right to seek him out, Ren. And you, general, will need a new name. A stronger name.’ Snoke booms down at him, his judgement delivered with a sly satisfaction.

‘Hux.’ He replies immediately. His grandfather’s name. His new title rings in his ears.

 

7.

He took to it with vindicating ease, finding that the years of studying, training and dejarik were finally able to pay off, as he handled plans and tactics. With each day the mockery and hatred of his community grew slightly dimmer. Not, of course, that he was going soft. His commitment to the cause had been championed by this amazing man, Kylo Ren, confirmed by Snoke, who still defied description in his mind, and Hux had every intention of proving their trust to be well founded. The only indulgence he allowed himself was that of revenge, steering their next recruitment drive towards his own planet.

He also took a secret pleasure in quietly marvelling at the infinite variety and beauty of the worlds they visited and the stars between them. He had never known true warmth before, never seen such vivid colours. The galaxy was more breath taking than he could ever have imagined, and his zeal to guard it from disorder and chaos deepened accordingly. With every devastation left in their wake, he reminded himself that it was just one planet, one sacrifice, for the greater good.

Other than this, every waking moment was dedicated to familiarising himself with his new position, to improving, pushing, planning. He noticed the hard stares and judgemental eyes of his subordinates, so much older than him, but now it was easy to face judgement, because he and, more importantly Snoke, knew something beyond their facile comprehension; that he was _special._ In any case, it wasn’t long before he’d earned the respect of those he bypassed, and the fear of the Stormtroopers. Not, admittedly, as much as Ren, who seemed to inexplicably terrify half the command and all the foot soldiers.

Hux, himself, did not fear; he still worshipped his saviour from the skies.

‘Your planet’s mismanagement is not uncommon. It is just one example of the incompetence and pettiness of the republic.’ Ren had explained, one evening early on, as, having met unexpectedly in a records room, Hux had inexplicably found himself detailing their slow decline at the hands of taxation and raiding.

‘We’re going change it.’ He replied, unthinkingly reaching across the table and grabbing the other man’s gloved hand firmly. Before he had time to withdraw it, the hand closed around his.

‘Yes, we are.’ The impassive mask replied.  

Not for the first time he wished he could see Ren’s face under the mask. Instead, he invents; imagining stern strength, pride, an air of wisdom gained from the same experiences that have caused the deep frown lines he knows must be there. The spare but powerful figure, marked, but not broken, by years battling against the corruption of this world. Mysteries aside, he was glad to have found a worthy father figure in this hero, so unlike the violent, temperamental mess he’d disposed of back home. Inexplicably, he also wonders if the skin under that glove is soft, protected from the elements so completely.

Slowly, an association beyond the necessary contact of commanders, grew, and their evening talks became a frequent occurrence, though friendship was not the right word for it. Friendship meant, to Hux, frivolity, empty laughter, something that had no part in his life. This was so much more. It was utterly strange, and yet so welcome to have someone share his beliefs on everything, to encourage his zeal instead of cautioning it, to teach him even more, tell him true histories where he has only heard lies. With each night he felt himself being led every closer to understanding and wisdom, and cherished it. He was giddy, exhilarated, confident; but all the words he could think of to describe it seemed too profane and insincere. Alone in the dark he could no longer keep himself from smiling. For the first time in his life he had the respect he has always deserved, from people he belonged amongst.

 

 

8.

It was a minor setback even by Hux’ standards; some news of the rebel generals that though mildly irritating, was hardly fatal. He passed the report over to Kylo expecting acknowledgement of some kind but not bothering to wait for one. He was halfway out of the room when the noises began. He spun on his heel in time to see him starting to attack everything around him, lightsaber leaving angry streaks of destruction, an unearthly noise of rage. Hux stared, gaping slightly, rendered utterly speechless and thoughtless for the first time in his life.

‘ _No. You are not this. You can’t be this.’_ He thought to himself, watching numbly as the stoic guide and wise man from his (now frankly embarrassing) fantasies began to scream and slice at the consoles around them. He hacked away, howling like a child, which was exactly what he turned out to be when he finally wrenched his helmet away, his cries rising at least an octave.

‘ _Fuck. He’s even younger than me.’_

The galaxy had clearly played some sort of trick on him, in the form of this overgrown toddler. Only the obvious danger of that unpredictable lightsaber kept him from going over there and tearing the boy to pieces with his hands for tricking him. By the time the tantrum ended, Hux had managed to close his mouth though he was sure he looked no less shocked. The figure turned around, and the sight of him only increased Hux’s rage. He was softness personified, feminine lines, with every indication of inner weakness. Ren’s eyes widened in surprise; clearly he had thought himself alone, though he immediately recovered himself and glowered. Hux surveyed him coldly, and slowly the defiant pouting settled and the eyes darted guiltily around the room, which had emptied instantly of everyone but Hux.

‘ _Not from respect, not even from real fear of the man. Just panic in the face of sheer mental instability.’_ Hux thought to himself, remembering his early dazzlement by the awe Ren had seemed to instil in those around him. Hux joined them belatedly, leaving the room without a backward glance. It was suddenly sickening that he had shared so much with, had had his mind searched by, such a creature, and he felt the undeniably crushing blow of seeing fantasy give way to caterwauling reality. It hurt more than the loss of his real father ever had. For a while he avoided the other man whenever feasible, their endless talks about the future now a thing of the past.

Eventually, though, he gave in. He had grown unused to isolation and it caused a strange heaviness in his heart. A distraction from his duties of this kind had to be avoided at all costs. He could even, as his sense of betrayal subsided, understand such anger as a response to the evils they were combating. Most comforting of all was the certainty that Snoke would not choose someone inferior to himself to hold an equally high command. If Snoke had not found him wanting, he ought not to either, because Snoke only chose the extraordinary, of this fact he was sure. He grabbed the nearest document to hand and went to Ren’s rooms on the pretext of discussing it, thus granted a second opportunity to study the soft creature under the mask. He wondered how many others had seen this.

‘Yes?’ He said, his voice as unpleasantly soft as Hux had expected.

‘I thought we might discuss this.’

‘What is it?’

Hux hoped that Ren didn’t catch his sneaky and necessary glance at the top sheet.

‘The proposals for the next few raids. I think this is an unnecessary number of troops to send.’

Ren eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then smiled faintly, stepping aside to let him by.

‘Yes, I think you’re right. Especially with the new blasters.’

With that their alliance continued, the same and yet different, and in every way more human, as he sat face to face with a man and no longer a mask, now freed from the perfection Hux had built up behind it.

 

9.

Their new equilibrium was maintained for a long time, despite the bitterness of some disagreements about the role of Ren’s Knights, and the increasing frequency, and openness, of his embarrassing outbursts, until a fateful meeting with Snoke.

‘Reports have reached us of Leia Organa’s whereabouts. This may be the perfect opportunity to try out the new suicide training.’ Hux had said in a tone even he would call smug; it had cost several lives and taken months of groundwork to get this information, such an unlikely success he had not even bothered to mention the plan before.

‘What to do you think?’ Snoke had said to Ren. Hux, turning, now saw that he was being glared at.

‘I don’t understand why General Hux did not see fit to share this information with me earlier. I don’t think we should show our hand yet. The Starkiller is not yet finished. We can find out her location another time, when we’re ready.’

‘I thought you might say that. I hope this is not filial loyalty.’ Snoke replied with a vindictive laugh. Hux could see on Ren’s face that he had the audacity to look betrayed by their leader. Ren began to babble, defending himself, just as Hux began to ask him what the hell was going on.

‘ _Enough_!’ You are both dismissed.’

They walked in tense silence until Hux spotted an empty room, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him into it.

‘Explain.’ He forced out through deep breaths, barely a whisper.

‘I have told you. In bits, at least.’ He said, shrugging free of Hux’ grasp. ‘I told you I was an apprentice under Luke Skywalker. And I told you the Solos lost their son there.’

Hux wondered for a moment if everyone knew Ren’s true identity, a sudden image of the Stormtroopers, the other commanders, even the children from his village laughing at his ignorance, came unbidden, before rationality reminded him that if they had known, he surely would have too. He must have remained silent for longer than he thought, as Ren had begun babbling again.

‘Besides, it’s not like they were _really_ my parents. They _left_ me with my uncle to train when I was ten years old! They never visited, they-‘

It really was too much. Hux barked with wild laughter; he couldn’t remember the last time he made such a sound.

‘So what, you’re here just to get back at your parents? You’re _pathetic_. Doing all this just because they didn’t give you enough att-‘

From nowhere, the life is being squeezed out of him, and through rapidly watering eyes he can see that ridiculous lip quivering, eyes wetter than his, a shaking hand reaching out to his throat, not touching it, and, yet, touching it. Gripping it.

Gripping him. It’s definitely not normal, that his first thought is that he doesn’t remember the last time he was touched, the last time he felt so empty of anger, so relaxed, so content; even if it is oxygen deprivation. He has not felt like this since he was last in the cold, clear darkness where they had first met on his home world. He remembers their first meeting, his excitement at their future setting the galaxy to order together. He wonders, lightheadedly, if he’s going mad with lack of oxygen, when he can’t stop staring at that ridiculous mouth, quivering and twisted with rage and effort, and when he feels a not unpleasant tightness in his groin – there is only enough time for his eyes to widen in shock and, uncharted territory though it is, what must be arousal, before it happens.

He tried, and failed, to stifle a groan, to keep his features neutral, and saw confusion on Ren’s face; a moment later a wordless question had been asked and answered. He felt his mind being searched and before he could even blink the hold on his neck was gone, and so was the man, running away down the corridor like a child. Hux, his control so totally and shamefully lost, threw everything he could pick up around the room – anyone who finds it will immediately blame Ren - until he was exhausted, his muscles screaming with the exertion. He straightened his uniform and hair and left, not realising until he got back to his quarters, with the aid of an astonished glance from a Stormtrooper on the way, that his neck was livid purple and the rest of him was still bright red. He seriously considered having the soldier shot, but he didn’t catch her number, nor could he clearly recall her face; and he couldn’t (after quickly estimating the costs) shoot every female with black hair and green eyes.

With utter horror, he could feel Ren creeping back into that moment more than once that evening. He spent almost the night projecting mentally the message that if Ren ever used the force on him again, ever so much as mentioned this happening, he’d leave each part of his body on a separate planet. He could hardly contain his fury at having to do this; he could hardly contain the shame he feels knowing it’s not a wholehearted threat. A tiny, treacherous part of him hoped that Ren knew this too, but he felt no more incursions and, after a few days of mutual avoidance, they met again as if nothing had happened, aside from the ever increasing chill between them, and within a few days these treacherous thoughts had been stamped out for good. The memory, whenever it surfaced unbidden, causes nothing more than mild displeasure.   

Nonetheless, he felt a nauseating thrill when, months later, he felt his mind being searched, just for a moment, his resultant self-loathing battling it out with confusion; Ren had looked for his feelings about the First Order. He supposed this was a request from Snoke, to ensure his loyalty, and thought little more of it; he had nothing to fear from a test of this sort, and endless preparations to oversee for the last stages of preparation of the Starkiller base.

It happened again, a few weeks later, to his surprise. A third time, a few days after that, and now he was sure this had nothing to do with Snoke. He was white hot with fury that _his_ loyalty is being questioned by a _Skywalker_ of all people, at his mind being invaded like this. Even though it was the middle of the night he dressed and marched over to Ren’s quarters, barely waiting until the door opened before he started.

‘I can feel you when you do that. If you ever cast a shadow of a doubt on my commitment to the First Order, or if you _dare_ to go where you have neither reason nor right to go, I’ll make it my personal mission to hunt down your parents, and kill them myself.’ He hissed; but as his eyes got used to the low light, he saw the figure curled up like a child on the bed, staring miserably at him, not rising to the bait. Finally, he understood Ren’s actions. It was worse than he could have imagined.

‘You’re a coward and a traitor, Solo.’ He said, his voice as icy as his blood has become, and left the motionless creature weeping silently. He saw Snoke the very next day.

‘You were right to come to me.’ He said, in the indulgent tone Hux only ever heard applied to himself. ‘Right to share your worries about his commitment to the cause. But you must leave the matter for now, I am going to give him a test very soon. We must see which path he will turn to.’

‘And if he chooses the wrong one?’

The silence was all the answer he needed. He saluted and left.

 

10.

Hux refused to admit to any relief beyond tactical that Ren has passed Snoke’s test, has killed Han Solo. Amongst the devastating loss of the Starkiller and most of his command, the emergence of a Jedi stronger than their own in the rebel ranks, he clung to this small glimmer of hope.

In a moment of quiet between the myriad small and unforeseen crises that arose over the next few days, he went in person to medical to see Ren; his progress reports were frustratingly vague and it was of strategic importance that Hux know the exact details of his condition. It simply made sense to go himself, it curtailed any room for error.

‘He is comatose, general, though we can’t find the exact cause. He was like this when he reached us.’

‘If he’s been unconscious the entire time, how is he clutching the blankets?’

'It's involuntary.’

‘Leave me.’

The doctor left with a perfunctory salute. Hux stared down at the figure that lay before him, asleep and yet as tense as a coiled spring. Feeling absurd, he finds himself talking, awkward and stilted even though a wall of unconsciousness separates him from his audience.

‘I’m glad you did what had to be done. Snoke is eager to see you again, when you are able to. He seems unconcerned about the Starkiller. I think he has another plan, though he hasn’t shared it with me yet.’

Even though the door was sealed shut he leaned in to whisper, some unwelcome, but irresistible, necessity forcing his words through his gritted teeth.

‘I do know one thing, though. We are not defeated. We are still those men who promised to restore order to the galaxy. This hasn’t changed anything.’

Hux broke off, feeling, with surprise and irritation, a tear pricking the corner of his eye. A tear of relief, of all things, in the midst of disaster. Relief that Ren has not failed them, has finally proved himself worthy of the trust Hux placed in him those many years ago, has vindicated Snoke’s belief in them both. Relief that his one ally and equal has been returned to him, and they could forget recent events, that things would be different now, when Ren woke up, as Hux had utter faith he would. That things would be as they were meant to be. He wiped it away hastily, embarrassed at such a display of mawkishness, even to just himself, and left the room. 

As he heard the door close, Ren’s grip relaxed and he let his tears fall again, staring up at the ceiling for a brief respite from the haunting image of the light leaving his father’s eyes, as guilt and grief cut through him like a knife.


End file.
